


Worthy of Survival

by turnthedial



Category: Spartacus Series (TV)
Genre: Angst, Grief/Mourning, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-02
Updated: 2012-04-02
Packaged: 2017-11-02 22:54:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/374265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/turnthedial/pseuds/turnthedial
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the prompt, "Agron/Nasir - AU - Agron and Duro are never bought by Batiatus and are sent directly to the mines instead. When the rebels come to liberate Naevia, Agron is only too happy to join them, but after a year in the mines he's not the same man we know. Hurt/comfort, bonus points for nightmares."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Worthy of Survival

Agron learns the thick taste of mud on his tongue, the scent of piss and rot and shit, the sounds of slaves wailing and weeping in the dark. He learns the feel of whip to flesh, the burn and ache of wound turned black and sick, the sight of beloved brother turned paler and smaller day by day. Agron learns hunger in its truest, basest form, the raw animal instinct to consume anything, a lust so deep and unrelenting that he wonders why men tell tales of love when there is the agony of starvation. The mines are where Romans come to abandon slaves and where slaves come to abandon their humanity.

There are mornings where Duro cannot rise, his skin cracked and bloody, his ribs poking out like sharpened twigs, and Agron has to force him. It steals sleep from him at night, the constant, nagging worry that he will wake one morning and find himself sharing bed with a corpse. He worries at the selfishness of it, thinks that perhaps it might be kinder to leave Duro to his fate, but he cannot let his brother go. As terrifying as it is, the idea of losing what remains of his family to the afterlife, nothing quite fills Agron with dread like the idea of an eternity in the mines’ dark passages alone. 

“Ought to leave me to die, brother.” Duro says one day, his grin tight, his gums bloody.

“Fucking idiot.” Agron mutters and squeezes water from mud into his brother’s mouth.

Agron tries to keep time, tries to track how long ago he last touched soil east of the Rhine, but sometimes he spends days in the tunnels or, at least, he thinks that he does. The pathways become familiar, a necessity born out of lack of light, and he learns the faces and names of everyone he can because sometimes, with the right bribe or turn of phrase, you can find yourself with an extra piece of bread or, if Wodan has truly blessed you, meat. 

Those with a taste for chance place bets upon how quickly new workers will take to die. “The girl,” A slave tells Agron one day, moistening stale bread with spit. “The house slave with the mark on her shoulder. She will not last the month.”

She does last the month and the next, for that matter, although Agron cannot testify to what condition. Agron forgets her most days, as he forgets most things beyond eat sleep Duro. His brother’s luck fails when a wounded foot brings fever and the day finally arrives when Duro cannot rise in the morning. Instead, he lays still, heartbeat fluttering wildly, eyelids closed and covered with grime.

“Duro,” Agron whispers fiercely in their tongue. “Please –“ He cannot think of his brother dead, left to rot in the tunnels like some kind of – “You must –“ But Duro does nothing except exhale a final time and the noise that Agron makes is that of a wounded animal. His mind becomes fixed on his brother’s laugh, his brother’s company, all taken from him by the Romans. Yes, Agron thinks. He will kill them all.

When men wielding swords and calling Naevia and talking of marked shoulders come barreling down through the tunnels, Agron feels weak-limbed with grief and the desire to feel Roman necks snapping beneath his hands. “I know of such a girl,” he says.

Days later, he sits as a free man on the sands of a fallen temple in the company of Spartacus, the bringer of rain. Agron supposes that the man’s legend would precede him, but there is no talk of gladiators or arenas in the tunnels. Agron keeps to himself, mostly, and if his eyes sting, he tells himself it is from the abundance of sunlight and certainly not the crushing thought that he has found his freedom, but his brother never will. At night, Duro comes to him in dreams, dripping black blood from accusing lips. You left me. You left me. Why do you survive and not I? It is enough to send Agron stumbling from his sleeping place out into the night air where he presses his forehead into the dirt, sucking in deep and quick breaths until his vision goes fuzzy and his chest aches.

On one such occasion, after he has collected himself, Agron looks up to find the Syrian – Nasir – watching him from the temple entrance, palms pressed to columns. The Syrian must know – has to know – of Agron’s dreams. Shamefully, he knows that when he wakes, he wakes with Duro’s name on his lips.

“I too had a brother,” says Nasir.

“No longer?” Agron asks, his breaths still coming harsh and fast. 

“Come,” Nasir approaches like one would a wounded animal. Agron remains crouched on the temple sands, watching as the Syrian reaches out as if to touch him, stopping midway, his hand paused in the air before it drops back to its place at his side. “I will help shoulder the weight.”


End file.
